The Bronze Garza

by S. Ann Cole

  I fetch a bottled water from the fridge, along with one of the three containers of fruit salad Lexi brought me earlier today. Then head dejectedly upstairs, have a nice hot shower, change into my nightdress, and climb into bed with my fruit salad.

  I’m feeding myself with one hand while browsing through Disney Plus with the other, when a quiet knock sounds outside my door.

  Hitting mute on the remote, I wait, listening. Tillie’s room is right across the hall from mine, so it could be hers and not mine. Though who would even be knocking? Monica?

  After a handful of seconds, the knock sounds again, low and hesitant. My door. It has to be an inebriated Tillie. She probably just got home.

  I set the container onto the nightstand, swing out of bed, and pad to the door.

  The last person I expected to find on the other side is Torin Garza. Shoulder leaned against the doorjamb as if he’s using it for support.

  He looks as though he doesn’t know where he is or how he got here.

  “Yes?” I prompt when he just stares at me like he’s waiting for me to explain his presence.

  Stretching his other arm across the doorframe, he glares down at the floor for several beats. Then, with a miserable noise in his throat, he lifts his eyes to mine again. “You didn’t ask me.”

  Huh? “I didn’t ask you what?”

  “To watch Hannah Montana with you.”

  A grin wrestles forward. I try to fight it but it wins out. “You want to watch Hannah Montana with me?”

  He frowns deeply, then gives a one-shoulder shrug. “I think so.”

  “I don’t speak dub-con, Mr. Garza,” I say. “You either want to or you don’t.”

  He straightens from the doorjamb. “Invite me in.”

  I step aside and wave him in.

  Eyes never leaving mine, he enters.

  “Did you leave?” I ask as I close the door and pad back to the bed. “Or were you here all this time?”

  “Didn’t leave,” he answers, drifting to the other side of the bed. Then mutters so quietly under his breath I almost didn’t hear him, “Couldn’t leave.”

  As he works off his boots, I pick up my fruit cocktail and the remote and settle back into bed, scrolling through for Hannah Montana. It’s not what I’d intended to watch tonight, but hey, this ought to be interesting.

  Boots off, he settles back against the headboard, feet crossed at the ankles.

  After hitting play, I hold the container out to him. “Fruit salad?”

  He looks at it then shakes his head. “Won’t all that sugar keep you up?”

  “Nope.” I pop a piece of kiwi into my mouth. “The wires in my body are so jacked up now that nothing really functions as it should. I could drink three shots of espresso right now and go straight to sleep.”

  “Have you tried getting professional help?”

  “The best of the best. For months. Nothing worked,” I tell him. “My digestive system is broken. It’s just a permanent change that I’ve had to learn to live with.” A limp shrug. “I don’t stress too much about it.”

  With a single nod, he shifts his attention to the TV.

  We watch the first episode in silence. But I’m so acutely aware of him next to me. His presence just isn’t one that can be tuned out or left in the periphery. He’s a vibrating, magnetic force that can be felt down to my bones.

  When the fruit’s all gone, I set the empty container on the nightstand. I squirt some hand-sanitizer into my palm and am cleaning away the stickiness left from the fruit off my skin, when he says my name.

  “Lyra.”

  Hands still rubbing together, I turn to him, and find his burning gaze on my bare legs. “Hmm?”

  “Can...” He drags his eyes from my legs up to my face. “Can I hold you?”

  And there I go, forgetting to breathe again. “H-Hold me how?”

  He motions me to come to him.

  I do.

  Curving one arm around me, he pulls me into his side. My cheek to his chest, my hand on his abs. And, wow, he smells divine. Feels like heaven.

  My heartbeat drums and skips and hiccups.

  But, I can also hear his. It might not be as erratic as mine, but it’s not exactly calm either. He’s affected by me, and that thought sends heady thrills through me.

  “Like this,” he whispers in my hair.

  By way of expressing I’m more than okay with him holding me, I press myself closer to him. Relaxing into him.

  He sighs. And I smile because it’s a good sigh.

  Hope clouds around the curves of my heart like fog.

  Maybe, just maybe, Madame Universe has changed her mind about me and will do something good for me this time around.

  Like giving me my dream man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “You’ll see.”

  Lyra

  WHEN I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning, he’s gone.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up in the middle of the night with the urge to pee and found him spooning me, sound asleep. Suffice it to say, I wrestled my bladder into submission and didn’t move an inch, because no way was I going to ruin perfection.

  Now, though, I’m feeling the consequences of that decision. Stomach cramping, I dart out of bed and straight to the bathroom, barely making it in time. Will a possible UTI be worth being spooned by Torin Garza? Hell yes. But I’m sure he would beg to differ.

  I take a cold shower, brush my thick, long hair back in a low ponytail, don yoga pants and a tank top, then all but skip down the stairs, hoping he’s still here.

  Tillie and Monica are in the kitchen. But Torin is nowhere to be seen.

  Of course he isn’t.

  “Good morning, Cinderella,” Tillie says with a knowing grin. “You slept later than usual.”

  Better than usual, too.

  Settling on one of the barstools, I drop my chin in my hands, scanning all the utensils and ingredients on the counter. “Are you cooking dinner? So early?”

  “Yep. Mom has this lame tradition of feeding her grown ass sons ‘Jamaican-style Sunday Dinner’ every week,” Tillie supplies. “So we start early so that there’ll be enough time to take dinner to them and back. Tripp lives in Venice, and Trent and True lives in Santa Monica, so it’s a bit of driving.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “If you’re the ones doing all the cooking, why can’t they come get the food themselves?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Tillie says emphatically, turning to Monica, “why can’t your adult sons be bothered to get in their expensive vehicles and come collect the food we so graciously prepare for them?”

  Monica rolls her eyes. “Neither of you have kids, so you will never understand.” From the fridge, she gets out a bowl of fruit and sets it firmly in front of me with a fork. “You, eat something.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I say with a southern drawl, which makes Tillie giggle.

  As I peel the cling wrap from the bowl, she asks, “So, how was your date last night?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a date,” I say, picking up the fork.

  She lifts a brow. “No?”

  “It was just some business party thingy for one of his clients.”

  “Are you related to the client?”

  “No.”

  “Was the party in any way connected to you or what you hired him for?”

  “No.”

  “Did he open the car door for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he introduce you as his ‘date’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was his hand on or around you the entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it was a date.”

  “No, it was a favor.”

  Tillie cackles. “Girl, there are women lined up around the block to give my brother ‘favors’. He wouldn’t need to turn to a client for one. He definitely likes you.”

  “I probably should have picked up on it when he asked me to have you stay here,” Monica says with a ligh
t smile, “because that man does not joke about his family. Do you know how many of his clients I’ve met?” The question is apparently rhetorical because she answers right away, “None. Not to mention subjecting himself to Lexi’s wrath. Trust me, you’ve got his attention.”

  “No offense, but I’m starting to think neither of you know Torin very well,” I mutter around a mouthful of pineapple, refusing to absorb any of what’s being said.

  Do I believe Torin is attracted to me? Yes. Barely. But to have any kind of notion that his attraction to me will lead to anything would be setting myself up for major disappointment. I’ve witnessed his intense aggravation with himself whenever he slips with me and gets too close, so I know better.

  He’ll never bite.

  Never taste.

  So I change the subject. “Can I come along for the ride with you today?”

  “Of course,” Monica answers. “Just be sure to let Torin know before we leave, okay?”

  “Okay.” I wave my fork around. “Is there anything I can help with?”

  Monica points to my bowl of fruit. “Just as soon as that bowl is empty.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Tillie giggles.

  ~

  HOURS LATER, WE’RE loaded up in Monica’s car with four food-warmers. Each personalized with their names embroidered; Trent, True, Tripp, and Torin.

  It’s both ridiculous and sweet. I’m almost jealous. I would give up my trust fund to have Lysandra show up in my life once a week. I hope the Garza men know and appreciate how good they’ve got it with Monica.

  Apparently the routine is to drive to Venice first, since it’s the farthest, then Santa Monica on the way back up, then Silver Lake last.

  Tillie and Monica are in the front bickering over music selections, and I’m in the back reading. I didn’t give Torin a heads-up like I said I would, because he would’ve either tried to stop me from going or sent one of his men along with us. And I just didn’t feel like dealing with all the “need to keep you safe” nonsense. Besides, I’m with his family, on the way to his brothers—who are Red Cage—and then him, so I don’t see what kind of danger I could possibly be in.

  We’ve just stopped at an intersection, right under the Venice sign stretched between two buildings, when Tillie’s phone chirps with a text.

  After reading it, she scoffs out, “Tripp wants you to pick him up some crab legs from Big P’s Grocer on the way.”

  “On the way?” Monica repeats. “We’re already here. We passed Big P’s almost five minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, but we both know you’re gonna turn around and get it,” Tillie says resignedly. “Anything for your favorite son.”

  “I don’t have a favorite,’ Monica refutes. “I love all my children equally.”

  “Oh yeah?” Tillie replies. “Prove it by not turning around. Let him get off his ass and go get his own damn crab legs.”

  Monica huffs.

  Less than a minute later, we’re headed in the opposite direction and Tillie is laughing hysterically.

  “Oh, shut up,” Monica grouses. “You will understand when you have a child of your own.”

  “In that case, I’ll never understand. Because with my jerkoff brothers, I’d have to leave this entire side of the country to find a man willing to touch me with a ten-foot pole, let alone get me pregnant.”

  “Good.”

  “Whatever,” Tillie mumbles under her breath.

  Minutes later, we’re in the parking lot of Big P’s Grocer.

  “Be right back,” Monica tells us as she undoes her seatbelt and gets out of the car.

  My phone rings just then, buzzing against my thigh.

  Holly calling...

  “Wow, you remember I exist,” I answer with a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” she replies, and it sounds truly genuine. Or maybe I’m just thirsty for our friendship. “I’ve been a shitty friend.”

  “What happened, you heard I had Ebola or something?” I ask. “Or did you decide to un-forgive me for proposing to your boyfriend in kindergarten?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I love you. You know that.” She blows a ragged sigh down the line. “Where are you, by the way? I went by your house and Patrick told me some nonsense about you being in rehab?”

  Rehab? Well, I suppose it’s better than “living with strangers for security reasons.”

  “Yeah. You would’ve known if you bothered to pick up the phone when I called.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ly. You have no idea. However you choose to have me make it up to you, I’ll do it, I promise. But—” Her father shouts something in the background. “All right, all right I’m coming! Jeesh,” she yells back. “Ly?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Are you allowed visitors at the rehab?”

  “I—yeah,” I answer, adding, “Why?”

  “There’s something really important I need to tell you. It’s about the—”

  Tillie’s shriek drowns out her words, pulling my focus to her. “Who are—what are—”

  It takes me a cold second to process what’s happening.

  “Shut the fuck up and don’t.fucking.move.” A masked man stands outside Tillie’s door, a gun pressed to the side of her head through the window.

  “You have no idea who you’re fucking with!” she screams at him, though the tremor in her voice belies her courage.

  “Ly? Ly? Who’s that?” Holly is saying on the line. “What’s going on? I thought—”

  I end the call and immediately dial 911. But before it can even begin to ring, two other armed masked men storm up on either side of the back doors. And it’s then that I know—they’re here for me.

  I did this. Left myself unprotected and wide open for the taking.

  As both doors are wrenched open, I make the decision not to resist or fight. If I go with them, Tillie will no longer have a gun to her head. The last thing I want is for her to get hurt because her brother was dumb enough to bring a tragedy magnet like me around his loving family.

  Tillie is young and vivacious and has a promising life ahead of her. Me? I already died in Russia. Long before Kristie blew her brains out. There’s nothing left to save here.

  So when rough hands grabs my upper arm and drag me out of the car, phone flying from my hand, my flip-flops falling off in the process, I go willingly. The sunbaked tar pavement is like a hot stove under my bare soles.

  Something hard digs at the center of my back, liquored breath growling at my ear, “Move it, bitch.”

  The handful of onlookers in the lot scatter in the opposite direction of the gunmen as I’m hauled off to a patchy black van and thrown in.

  I face-plant onto the seats, eating a mouthful of cracked pleather.

  Tires screech as the van peels out of the lot, and my head slams into the side of the van when it makes a sharp turn.

  Motherfreakingshit that hurts!

  When I’ve finally managed to right myself from the awkward position they’d thrown me in, I find the men have removed their masks. It’s like deja vu, except this time the men aren’t on my side.

  The heavy-set one who’d dragged me out of the car has me caged in the corner. He reaches down into a backpack on the floor and comes up with a duct tape. “Hands,” he orders.

  Used to the drill, I hold my hands out in front of me, wrists pressed together. As he starts wrapping the tape around them, I say, “You know, you really didn’t have to make such a scene back there. If you’d simply knocked on the door, I would’ve come with you, no resistance.”

  Heavy Set looks at me like I’m loco. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll tape ya’ mouth next.”

  “Not yet,” the man in the front passenger seat says, twisting around to look at me. His voice is like gravel in a glass of sand. Rough, course, and hoarse all at once. It’s wicked cool.

  “You have an awesome villain voice,” I tell him. “Have you ever considered acting?”

  He looks to Heavy Set, then back to me. “W
ho are you to the Castellos?”

  Now it’s me who’s looking to Heavy Set, hoping he’ll explain whatever the hell Villain Voice is on about. “Who?”

  “Who’s bitch are you?” Heavy Set growls by way of elaboration. “Stefano’s or Lorenzo’s?”

  “I don’t—” My eyes dart back and forth between the two men. “Am I supposed to know these names? Who’s Stefano? Who’s Lorenzo? Who or what is Castellos?”

  Villain Voice looks at Heavy Set again. “You sure we got the right one?”

  Heavy Set reaches down into his backpack once more and comes up with a folded-up paper. When he unfolds it and holds it up next to my face, I realize it’s a picture of me.

  Villain Voice nods. “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “They trained her well,” Heavy Set mumbles, pocketing the picture before I can get a glimpse of it.

  “Can I tell you men something?” I ask. And without waiting for an answer, press on, “Around two and a half years ago, I went camping with my best friend. That night, I fell asleep and woke up in Mexico. I was dumped on a fishing boat and carried off to a yacht. That yacht then carried me off to a ship, where I was then locked into a crate like an animal for—well, I don’t know how long because I passed out from dehydration.

  “When I regained consciousness, I was in a cell with a bunch of other girls like me. Fed nothing but stale bread and water for weeks. Then a bag was thrown over my head one day and I was taken somewhere else, where I was forced to stand on a stage and be bid on. Then I was drugged. When I woke up again, I was in Russia.

  “There, I was raped, sold, starved, and beaten when I ‘misbehaved’. Repeatedly. I watched a friend blow her own brains out with her captor’s gun as her means to escape. After about sixteen months, I was rescued and brought back home. In all that time, I came across a lot of people, heard a lot of names, but I guarantee you, none of those names were either ‘Stefano’ or ‘Lorenzo’.”

  Villain Voice gapes at me. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.” I smile at him. “Like I said, I wouldn’t have fought you. I’ve already been to hell. But you wanna know something else?”